Ice breathes across the back of your
neck,
your hairs perk up in a reaction you'll
never forget.
It's like they way that you can never
remember what to say,
even though it seemed like your words
were at their best.
Something unconscious, like he middle
of the night,
breaking glass and you're asking “fight
or flight.”
It's the kind of thing that makes our
blood run hot and cold,
the kind of thing that affects you,
young and quick,
or wise and old.
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